Snow White Queen
by Vytina
Summary: You belong to me, my snow white queen. There's nowhere to run, so let's just get it over. Soon I know you'll see, you're just like me.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is a two-part piece that can be read as a prequel to "Within My World". As with that story, this one draws inspiration from the musical talents of Evanescence - from their song "Snow White Queen".**

**Title: Snow White Queen**

**Summary: You belong to me, my snow white queen. There's nowhere to run, so let's just get it over. Soon I know you'll see, you're just like me.**

**Characters/Pairing: Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow x Iris DeLaine (OC)**

**Rating: T for brief mentions of sexual content.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any affiliated characters. Iris DeLaine belongs to me, as does this story. Please do not use without permission. Thank you.**

**Please review!**

* * *

Perfumed skin, starched suits and glimmering gowns; soft chatter and gossip echoing through the gallery, drifting through the vents and hallways; the stench of undeserved success and triumph—everything is the same as it had always been. Time has been frozen in this despicable place—untouched by the months.

The memories linger throughout this place—lingering as memories will always do. They haunt and torment a young, malleable mind. They empower and rejuvenate a matured mind—a mind hungering for vengeance, a soul thirsting for blood.

And they will serve him well tonight. They will serve him to remember every single injustice he has ever suffered in this place. And they—every single one of them—will taste the sweet flavor of retribution. He will see them fall to the ground, wriggling and writhing like the helpless little worms they are.

They will pay.

"Guns! They've got guns!" Oh, such sweet cries of fear…but they are nothing to particularly dwell upon. They are too soft, too rapidly hushed to sate his hunger. They are mere samplings to wet his tongue.

The crowd parts, fearful to be an obstacle for those intruders. And he sees the real target, the main course to the evening's delights: an old, pathetic excuse for a male being, clutching a worn brown-leather case like his firstborn child. A touching gesture, truly—defending the money he had been so generously blessed with to save the beloved university. He who has inherited this school from his forefathers, who raised it like he would a son, and has done everything he possibly can to maintain the funding for the school's future.

It was enough to make one vomit.

He is nothing but a whore, selling himself every way possible to maintain these funds, to keep him on a polished throne and fatten up his pockets. He is as much a whore as those insipid females that flock around the university jocks, hanging on every word and cooing at them like a litter of newborn pups.

Dark eyes close behind a burlap mask, relishing brief memories of a young, powdered face contorted in terror, brunette curls previously sprayed to perfection, now a mangled mess clutching to the cheeks, to the sides of a throat expelling shrieks—ah, such music she had made!

A lunatic, they called him. A lunatic, was he—for giving the University's finest a _real_ education and expanding their horizons of knowledge to the harsh realities of their own minds?

"Thank you, Dr. Long." He speaks as polite as ever, but a cruel smile has replaced the neutral one of a professor as he reaches out for the case. "I'll take that."

And it is child's play to relieve the fool of the case. He estimates the weight carefully within his hold, judging that it will be a fine compensation for his trouble. Money is, for the most part, insignificant for his purposes, and it always has been—he was never been brought up with excessive amounts of wealth, and he never desired to possess any in his later years. Of course, this only resulted in further insult from his colleagues—as though he could call them such, these simple-minded fools who knew nothing of the world outside of their posh dwelling and white-picket-fence ideals. But never the less, these spoils will prove useful and beneficial. The cost of chemicals isn't cheap, and he will be able to purchase more books—a familiar and comforting luxury that has been missed.

The old man plays the fool, determined to go down fighting in order to save his money. "Over my dead body!" he proclaims, making to seize the case back, wrinkled hands clutching an arm covered by red rags.

The smile, cruel and expectant, returns to the stitched mouth. "If you insist…" the words are wrapped in a low hiss of a voice, full of dark promises as red mist seeped from his free hand. He is free in seconds, the old man instinctively backing away, his mind attempting to understand just what his eyes are now seeing.

"W…what's happening…?" confusion turns to panic all too easily, his eyes staring in horror at his hands. It is a true pity that his delusion can not be made clearer, but a mind that understands fear as well as his can make an easy guess.

A cry of terror—small and weak, but what can he expect from such a man?—rises from the fool's throat, just before he collapses to the ground. Dark eyes observe him from above, standing tall and triumphant. The legality of the glee he feels right now should be called into question.

"Bring him." He instructs, "His torture has just begun."

More screams herald his departure from the gallery—lovers turned on each other, friends lunging for each other's throats, women ripping jewels from their throats and hair from their scalps…such a fine performance. He only regrets he cannot witness it longer.

Something catches around his ankle, halting his ascension up the stairs. Annoyance drifts over his features, only to be replaced by amusement as he found the interference—Gotham's very own defender of the night. "Batman," he acknowledges, mockingly addressing with him, "I am surprised. I thought you would be at home, enjoying my time-released fear toxin."

And he really should be. After all, a good patient ought to abide by the doctor's orders.

* * *

It is easy enough to be rid of the pest—his toxin does a marvelous job of altering one's perception of reality, determining a genuine threat from a minor inconvenience. And what is more genuine a threat than a giant bat?

The lackeys are waiting obediently for him (such good little pets they are). One moves ahead to the blimp, Dr. Long an unconscious heap thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The screams still echo from the gallery below. Briefly, he wondered if they have managed to beat the Batman to a pulp yet.

Suddenly, a shadow flits across the wall above—a short-lived testament, from a poorly lit hallway, that someone is near.

A clawed finger lifts to the stitched mouth, silencing the lackeys at once. With feline grace, he creeps up the staircase, each step careful and deliberate so as not to alert any of his presence quite yet. His right hand reaches to his belt, fingering the barrel of his gun.

A creak in the floorboards echoes in his ears. The stranger—student or other—right around the corner. The little fly is right in the spider's web.

He whips around the corner, gun drawn and aimed with perfection. The other remains perfectly still, staring almost defiantly into his masked face. The silence falls heavy over both of them, and for perhaps the first time in his life, he finds it almost unbearable.

She looks just as he remembers: skin as colorless as porcelain—cold in appearance, but he remembers how warm it felt—right eye hidden behind an inky stain of hair—oh, and even now he can feel the silken strands sliding between his fingers. The left eye stares at him now, an icy pool of blue framed by long dark lashes.

She has not changed at all. And for all that has changed in his life, there are always some things that will never change. His feelings have not changed, complex and alien as they are. He lowers the gun to his side.

"Miss DeLaine." He addresses her with all the old dignity and respect of a professor. It was as it had once been—she coming to visit him in his office, the polite student coming to seek advice from her counselor.

He finds himself longing for those days to return.

He wants to see the look of intrigue, of awed respect that was always present when she approached him, when she came to him seeking answers for her questions—after all, there is no other who could quench her thirst for knowledge…not as he can.

There is none of that old intrigue now, but curiosity steadily seeps into the icy expression she previously held. And then, her eye slowly widens, recognition filling that single orb of blue.

"Professor Crane?"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: After considering this a little bit more carefully, I've found that this is going to be longer than two chapters. With this in mind, don't review this as the final chapter. More is coming!**

**Hostage situations are quite enjoyable to write, and this one is no exception. Please do review! I'd like to know what my readers are expecting, or even wishing for, in the next chapter!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any affiliated characters. I only own Iris DeLaine. Thank you.**

* * *

She stands before him, her expression and demeanor one of remarkable calmness, yet intrigue still lingers within the depths of her exposed eye. He knows she is surprised, even confused, but those reactions are of little importance to him. He had expected a different emotion, one he has seen writ all over the features of every person in the University's gala (he can still hear them screaming); in the depths of Dr. Long's face even before tasting the toxin's effects; and even in the dark, hollow eyes of the Batman himself:

_**Fear**_.

Yet he does not see it in her.

That is not to say he has never witnessed his student's fear before. He still remembers the day, clear as though it had occurred only mere moments ago instead of two years passed. It was an intriguing sight, truly…yet undeniably startling. He had tried (and failed) to dismiss it, to ignore those strange emotions suddenly stirred within him.

He could not, and it had disgusted him.

It had been a long, long time since he had experienced the twisted, even perverse pleasure he drew from witnessing fear—at least to the degree he observed it in her eyes, in the way they widened and filled with unmistakable fear; in the way every limb, fiber, and muscle of her body tightened, yet still shook with the intensity of a leaf desperately clinging to a branch under the pressures of a violent wind; the whitening of every knuckle on her hands as they clutched her books to her chest (he'd wondered how she could still breathe).

He remembers—so clearly, so distinctly—how he had set a hand on her shoulder, inquiring as to the source of such anguish. She could not speak, could not even _try_ to do so. Only her eyes remained trained on the door, where voices drew nearer. Every fiber of her being was tensed, longing to run and utterly frozen, rooted to the spot.

Then _he_ had appeared—tall and thin, yet strong, like a redwood; dark hair and pale skin, with those piercing blue eyes, all of which he had passed on to his offspring. Yet they had held none of the spark, the fire that always lingered within Iris' eyes. They were cold, unfeeling and empty pits.

Iris feared him—her father, her sire. She had feared him then…did she still fear him?

He blinks the question away. Truly, all that matters—all that really concerns him—is that she fears another man, not _him_.

He is the Scarecrow—he is _fear incarnate_. And she was—is—his student. She should fear no other but him.

Knowing that she does not stand before him in fear, knowing that somewhere in the far reaches of her mind—an impregnable fortress to so many—she could still fear a man other than him…there is no greater indignity to suffer, no other injury to endure than this one. It is unacceptable and unforgivable.

He must see the fear in her eyes, hear it in her voice, _smell_ it as she stands in his presence. There is no other option. If he does not earn her fear—no matter the means needed to achieve such ends—he will never come to terms with the pleasure he experienced that day. He must understand it—even forgive himself for it, though he will never admit to such. The way she appeared to him that day was mesmerizing…the fear coiling within her eyes (surely it was present in the other one, though he could not see it) and the tremor of her muscles raising tiny bumps along her skin...and God help him, the way she clung to her books as though they were her only lifeline, her only hope for survival…

He wanted it to be _him_ she clung to, held so tightly that she could have easily crushed his bones (and he would have relished every second of it, rejoiced in it). He wanted to let his hands run along her arms, her back and waist, fingers slipping beneath her clothes to feel the goosebumps lifted over every inch of her bare flesh. She would not have understood then, of course, but he would have explained it all to her. He was a teacher, an educator. It was his duty to enhance her pool of knowledge, to expose her to all manner of new things.

Those are the lessons that only _he_ can teach her. There is no other who can teach her.

And he would have shown her. Oh, he would have shown her things she could not possibly imagine. It would have been the simplest matter of conditioning, of rewarding her fear with carnal pleasures of the flesh. She would have accepted them, _embraced_ them, _**desired**_ them…

She would have needed him.

She would have _wanted_ him.

He needs her to need him now, in this moment and forever after this moment is gone. He is still her mentor, her teacher. She will understand. She will even welcome these new lessons, welcome him back into her life—for she must now, must always know that no one else can teach her as he does, as he _will_.

She belongs to him. She allowed him to prove it once—one night that never seemed to end, and so many more that followed. And he will prove it again.

"Professor," her voice draws him back to the hallway, to her presence, "What are you…why are you dressed like that?"

She does not sound accusing or even disgusted. Confused, of course…but not disgusted. He draws satisfaction from that, even perhaps a small amount of comfort, and moved forward. The gun is returned to his belt, tucking it safely away with no intention of retrieving it again. He opens his arms, extending them to her as he did every time she came to call on him. She visibly relaxes, and it encourages him further. She still trusts him, no matter how his choice of attire has changed.

"I fashioned myself a new wardrobe, Iris." he answers pleasantly. Behind him, he can feel the startled, bewildered gaze of his associates. They are of no importance now, and if they know what's good for them, they will keep an eye out for any further interruptions. Right now, his attention is all for Iris…_his_ Iris.

He turns slowly to give her the full view of his attire—a bit silly perhaps, but he deems it necessary, if for no other purpose than to reassure her. "Don't you like it?" he asks, gesturing idly to himself with one hand.

She pauses, her gaze drifting over him briefly before looking back at his masked face. "It's…intriguing."

He chuckles quietly. "I know it will take a bit to get accustomed to, but I find it far more comfortable than those stiff shirts and slacks. The material is more flexible…more accommodating." He extends a hand to her. "Go on…" he encourages her, "No need to be concerned…it's only cotton and burlap."

A pause follows, then her hand rests in his palm. Her fingers feel out the material carefully, stroking over the rough burlap of his gloves before trailing upwards and finding the frayed hem of his shirt. Her touch—so curious, like a child—is wondrous to behold. This is just as it should always be—Iris here with him, Iris learning from him, Iris standing close to him…

She is _so close_ to him…he would need only to close his hand around her wrist and yank her back against his chest, tucking her against him where she belongs. His arms could—would—hold her tightly, so tightly she can barely breathe. He may even bruise her, but he will tend to her injuries later. He has wounded her before—accidentally, of course, but it was damned marvelous to watch her red, _red_ blood stain that alabaster flesh—and he has always healed her.

An unholy crash echoes through the silence. A shout from one of his henchmen informs him of the intruder's identity—_Batman_. There are sounds of a struggle just around the corner—so close, _too close_! He can see the vigilante's shadow drawing nearer, and then he has backed the imbeciles into the hallway, mere feet away from him—from Iris.

His fingers abruptly close around her wrist—he has no choice, he felt her start to pull away—and he pulls her forward. It is absurdly easy to do so, to bring her against him. She struggles against him, confused at his actions.

"Professor, don't…!" she struggles harder, fighting to get away from him. And he cannot allow that.

"I am truly sorry, Iris." he whispers into her hair, breath cold against her neck. "I promise this will only hurt for a brief moment."

She cannot see the needle coming, not with her head turned to look at him, into his eyes to find the answers he will not give her—not now. But her pained gasp assures him she can _feel_ it, feel the cold metal driving fiercely—violently, really—into her wrist. It is too rough, messy and careless on his part. He should know better than this, should check to make sure he has found a vein, and is not just injecting her muscle with the drug.

But her eye suddenly clouds, the lid growing heavy before falling closed completely. Her body falls limp against him, her limbs useless to support her now, and his arms are waiting. It feels good to hold her again, to have her so helplessly dependant upon him.

Batman appears around the corner, and Scarecrow is ready.

The Dark Knight freezes in mid-step at he takes in the sight—the henchmen standing beside their employer, guns raised with fingers curled around the trigger, and more importantly, the Scarecrow with his arms full of a young woman—his hostage, his bargaining chip, and his ticket to freedom.

"Look carefully, Batman," he speaks softly but clearly, "She is young…her life full of promise and opportunity. Do not force me to end it so quickly."

It was all-too apparent he wants to move forward, to fight. But the image of such a young, vulnerable girl at the mercy of this madman clearly keeps him in place. His jaw clenches tightly, eyes narrowed at the ex-professor. Behind the burlap, a thin mouth twists in triumph.

"Very good." He praises, admiring (and enjoying) the way Batman bristles at the smugness in his voice, "Now then, you would be wise to not follow us. Stay where you are, leave us be, and I will release her alive and well. Disobey my orders, Batman," he added with a dark edge to his voice, "and I promise you will regret it."

* * *

The departure from the University began as successful—and it should have remained such. But apparently even the best laid plans unravel, especially when the damned Bat can't leave well enough _alone_.

One of the cretins has already departed from the blimp—whether or not he survived is irrelevant. Right now, he is more concerned with how easily Batman has recovered from the toxin. Clearly, he will need to improve upon his formula. He cannot deny or even ignore his disappointment from knowing such; his brain-child has failed him.

Next time, he will not be so careless.

"It's over, Scarecrow." Batman growls, advancing toward him with fists raised and jaw clenched. But the professor is smarter still, and he does not plan to go away so quickly—especially not when he has a much more important matter to tend to.

He has Iris in his arms now, carefully tucked away in his lap as he settles into his getaway plane. His face splits into a wicked grin, as he waves farewell. "Only for you and the doctor, Batman."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Finally, I present the final chapter of "Snow White Queen". I thank my readers for their patience and hope this was worth the wait. I will give warning now – this is not a heartwarming love story. Please read with that notion in mind; flames will not be tolerated. Thank you in advance for your consideration. Till next time!**

* * *

Cold steel rests against her skin, an icy support preventing her from descending to the floor below. It takes a long moment—too long—for her to realize the arctic sensation is not confined to one area, but the entire span of her body—arms, legs, back and side alike. Only two strips of black cotton—one around her chest, the other around her hips—cover for her most intimate parts, and ultimately such protection is useless.

There is a distinct chill in the air, lingering all around her and setting her nerves on high alert. A breeze slips across the bare skin of her stomach, and she immediately twitches, unpleasantly startled. Her abrupt motion exposes even more of her bare skin to the chilly texture beneath her, and she whimpers in discomfort.

Her eyelids feel heavy, and while she fights to open her eyes all the way, it is all for naught in the end. Her vision is blurred, disallowing her to distinguish much more than shapes and vague distinctions of color. She blinks, hoping to clarify the images further, but reopening her eyes proves only a more difficult task than before. All attempts to hear and gather her bearings fail as well; sounds are slurred against her ears now. Any movement of her limbs is futile and useless.

She cannot move.

She cannot see.

She cannot hear.

She can only feel.

And she feels _everything_.

She can feel him enter the room long before he approaches her. The air grows heavy as he steps over the threshold and draws closer to his captive. She can feel his eyes examining her, but it is not the professional and calculating gaze of her professor—his gaze is one she knows, knows his every thought as he makes observations. This gaze is different, far different from anything she's ever experienced. It is the gaze of a predator, hungry and ravenous. This gaze eagerly lingers over her exposed flesh, taking it all in without restraint.

Again she whimpers. This time, her actions bring a smile to his face. She can sense it, though her eyes do not see it.

"You're awake."

She cringes slightly at the voice. The voice that had called to her before was that of her professor—quiet but not soft, polite and inviting. This is not his voice—not this low hiss that belongs to a serpent, not man. The threads of his mask, split just above the thin line of his mouth, tremble under the exhale of breath that passes through as he whispers her name. Again, she cringes; again she whimpers and tries to squirm away with useless, deadened limbs.

He laughs.

"Ah, ah…" his tone is playful, almost as though he is reciting a nursery rhyme to a child, while one hand readjusts her position with a simple gesture, "None of that, my little flower. It's time to behave."

* * *

Defiance—the core component of her very being—is still there, still present even in the farthest reaches of her mind. His drug, his poison has not yet robbed her of the ability to fight back, to refuse his demands. And she will refuse him. She is not a pet, not a toy to be played with.

Again, she tries to move, summoning a grand mass of her willpower to roll onto her side, making for the edge of the table. Her fingers manage to wrap around sharp edges—the edge of the table. It would take only another well-aimed roll of her body to send her below, crumpling to the floor. Yet she does not know if she can manage it. Further, she knows there is no hope for her to escape him once on the floor. She barely has the energy to move her arms, let alone her legs.

He laughs at her struggle, at this weak but still impressive act of defiance. Even in her weakest state of body and mind, she still fights for her independence.

"Good…" his voice praises her, and she feels his presence drift away as he circles the table, the pad of his feet barely audible upon the floor, "Very good, Iris. You do well, my sweet…even now, still so defiant." One finger reaches out to caress her upper arm, and she cringes at the sharp prick of burlap. Rather than sound displeased with her reaction, he gives a soft hum of consideration before pushing her back into place.

"I need you to remain still—for now." he pats her head in a perversely gentle fashion before striding away for the moment. "I assure you, later there will be as much freedom for you to move as you please."

She longs to fight him, even with something as simple as a well-placed kick or a bite to his hand. This touch is not familiar to her, not like Professor Crane's touch. And even through the fog which his drug has placed over her mind, she still possesses the ability to wonder—wonder when and how such a dark, bloodthirsty being came to replace her proud and dignified professor. How is any of it possible?

Exhaustion has seeped heavy into her limbs, rendering them completely useless. She can only do that which she most despises—lie and wait for him, to see what he has planned for her.

Her answer comes an agonizing time later—minutes or hours, she cannot say which has passed—when his touch returns, running deliberately across her shoulders, tracing the dip of her clavicle before grazing the swells of her breasts. She instinctively jerks away from his touch, trying to escape the stinging bite of his clawed fingertips. Memories alone dictate that she cringe from the touch of any save the professor—his touch which always brought comfort and reassurance. She does not desire this creature's touch, not as she previously desired Professor Crane's. This touch brings pain, not pleasure.

Her simple rejection brings anger to his voice, replacing the previously calm and collected tone with distinct bitterness. "Ah…I see. My touch is repulsive to you then? You threw yourself at _his_ feet, craving and desiring the lightest brush of his fingertips, but you shrink from my embrace? You cringe as though I contaminate this pretty skin with a mere caress, but you would have experienced ecstasy if _he_ had beaten you senseless? Is that it then, little flower? You cannot draw pleasure from this masked face, but you would from his features? Does your disgust extend solely from the inability to see that he and I are one in the same?"

"You're not the same." Her voice does not fail her yet, words finally formulating upon her tongue to strike back against his lies. "You're nothing like him."

A furious snarl emits from stitched lips as his gloved hand seizes her face without regard. Dark eyes burn from the depths of a burlap mask, matching her defiant gaze. "Indeed…because you knew him _so_ well." The anger ebbs for a short time as a cruel smile replaces the furious curl of his lips. "Far be it for me to question your opinion of the good professor when you know his each and every thought as though it were your own. Isn't that right, Miss DeLaine? You know him better than anyone else, don't you?"

Her eyes narrow slightly at his taunts, meeting his gaze with suspicion as he continues. "Dear little Iris, the beloved protégé of her quiet professor. You know he adores you, don't you? You know he would do anything and everything for you…risk even the security of his job all for you. Those little experiments he did, sucking the darkest fears of your peers out for them to use as their own lynch? The ones you were so eager to help him with? They were all for you, my dear. He gave you everything of himself…and lost his job for it."

Tears prick the corners of each eye, both hidden and exposed on her face. Shame floods across her features, apparent even as she turns her face away from his gaze. She had always suspected…but it was true then. He had been fired for his work—cast out like a leper from the university's self-righteous society. She'd known his experiments were for her…the only way for him to avenge each and every one of her numerous assaults at the hands of sorority sisters and college athletes alike. In retrospect, she had been the one to get him fired…she had cost him everything. Oh God, what had she done?

"Now, now…" his fingertips dance across her cheeks to catch her tears, "Jonathan wouldn't want you to shed such pretty tears for his sake, not when he was trying so hard to make you happy."

She jerks from the touch. "Don't," her voice is choked and she curses herself for allowing emotion to become so transparent, "You don't know anything about—"

"About what?" he hisses, suddenly drawing close to her face, "You or him? Before you begin such inane accusations, allow me to shed light on the situation at hand. I know your precious professor more than you could possibly imagine, little girl. I was born from the darkest depths of his heart and mind, with all those ugly little thoughts he's kept stored away for so long as my source of survival. And you," again he brings a touch to her face, forceful this time so she cannot turn away so easily, "I know so much about you, little Iris. Your darkest thoughts, your fears and your tears, your hatred and your bloodlust…all that you revealed to him, you revealed to _me_."

He watches with relish as realization seeps in her eyes, mingled with horror as she finds hunger in those dark depths. "Oh, yes…I know everything." He murmurs. "Those desires you harbor to watch your attackers drown in their own blood, to expose their pathetic souls as the cowards they are just before they lie dead at your feet…to become the mistress of their fears and have their miserable lives in the palm of your hand. I know it all, dearest Iris…" his lips offer breathless whispers as they linger above her ear, "And I can help you make all your dreams a reality."

Iris shudders away from his touch, trying to block out his words without much success. Even still, her tongue offers defiance to mask her intrigue. "You're wrong. I'm not…I wouldn't ever do that. I'm not evil. I'm not like them."

"Keep telling yourself that, little one." He croons softly while tracing gloved fingertips along her quivering lips, "But you know you are. You're just like Jonathan, you know—so tormented by the little insects around you, thirsting for their filthy blood and completely unable to touch them because of these silly things called _rules_ and _morals_. They try to bind you down as you were a common whore for their uses. But you are so much above that, aren't you, Iris? You _know_ you are far above your so-called peers…why bother deny it any longer?"

"Leave me alone." She whispers, jerking away from his hand. This was wrong. She had only thought those things; all those horrible and angry thoughts that she'd told Professor Crane was nothing more than a dark fantasy. She'd never bring it to life. It was wrong…it was cruel…

…just as they had been cruel to _her_.

"You remember everything, don't you?" his voice is low and cold against her ears, a smile playing across his lips, "All those wicked things they said to you, all those nasty rumors they spread about you and the good professor…and let's not forget what they let those pigs do to you."

Her fingers curl into whitened fists, nails digging down into the pale skin to draw blood. Voices seep forward from the depths of her memory, the voices that cannot be forgotten returning once more to eviscerate her sanity and leave only a bloodthirsty animal in its wake. Cold tears of hatred slick down across her face to fall upon his awaiting fingertips.

"I could help you taste vengeance, my sweet." He purrs against her skin, the burlap grating against her skin as he drags the seamed mouth along her neck, "I would teach you things no one can possibly imagine. Jonathan isn't the only one who can teach you…I can. I will."

Her bleeding palms lift toward his mouth, held tight within his hold. Though she does not dare look upon his masked face, still she can feel the hunger of his gaze tracing along the red streaks, staining the crevices and dribbling from her wrist. His tongue is slick and wet as it catches every drop, sucking her flesh to clean it with lips and teeth. A distinct bruise is left as a reminder, and she hates the shiver that runs through her spine as he now licks her fingertips clean. More than not, she hates the shiver because she knows it is not borne of fear or discomfort.

His fingers are deliberate and purposeful, sliding across her thin limbs with ravenous hunger needing to be sated. Each touch of his mouth is hard and fierce, leaving additional imprints across her skin as any animal marks its mate. She squirms and whimpers under the rough ministrations, confused as pain blurs with pleasure—pleasure that should not exist in the wake of brutal sadism.

His teeth pierce the tender curve of her breast, drawing blood to be devoured by his tongue. A sob forces itself past her throat as she tries to throw herself away from his touch even when her body craves it. This is a torture far greater than she could have previously imagined, to be damned to despise and need this creature's touch with the same fervency as she needs to draw breath in her lungs. What cruel game of Fate is this?

A rough caress strikes the nerves of her core, and she offers a helpless cry as liquid heat seeps unbidden to his fingers. She curses her body as it again betrays her, shamelessly inviting his touch when it should only desire Professor Crane—Jonathan…her Jonathan.

He groans aloud, and she trembles to think such a noise is so similar to Jonathan's own sound of pleasure when he touches this sacred part of her body. "Oh, yes…good, Iris. This is what I want. Offer yourself to me, pet. Accept my touch as you do _his_. Let your body teach you that we are one in the same, he and I…just as you and I are one."

"N…no…"

"Such a weak protest," he shakes his head with a mocking smile, "You know you can do better, Iris—at least, you _could_ do better if you really didn't want this. But you do, don't you? You want this…" his lips linger beside her ear to offer his words on an exhaled hiss, "You want _me_."

"No…Jonathan, help m—"

"No!" he snarls with fury lacing both his words and the very pit of his dark eyes, "Don't you dare call out for him. He has been granted access to you far too long and far too many times. Tonight, you belong to me!"

A scream tears from her throat as his body forces itself upon her, plunging deep without the regard or concern for her well-being that Jonathan would have shown her. She vaguely registers a groan of satisfaction as his body relishes the sensation of being within her, but her mind is more aware of the hands holding her hips in a vice, keeping her anchored in place as he uses her body to sate his desires. Again, she is betrayed by her physical being while her mind is horrified to think she could ever find delight in such masochism.

Yet even still, the thought of fighting him off as she should do offers little in the way of satisfaction when compared to the thought of keeping him close to her. Through the thin rags and rough burlap of his costume, she can feel the tight muscles and warm skin of her professor; the willowy bones of his body are unbearably familiar to her as she is clutched against him. It is Jonathan's body, controlled by this ruthless creature of darkness who desires her with the same ravenous passion as Jonathan. Oh God, why can it not be easier for her to despise one and love the other? Why must she taste the same lust for the beast as she does for the man?

"Good," he praises her softly, almost lovingly, and it is a perverse contrast to the vicious claim he inflicts over her body, "That's my girl…you savor these carnal pleasures as no other can. Can you still doubt that we are meant to be together? Can you deny it as you respond to my touch?" his fingers splay across her breasts, manipulating the soft weight against his palm, "Can you protest as my body works against yours…? Can you?"

She offers no spoken response, but the way her hands clutch at his shoulders and legs tighten against the sharp bones of his hips to cradle him closer serves as his answer. A smile twists the mouth beneath the mask just before it meshes against hers in a ruthless kiss, his tongue mercilessly devouring her even through the confining seams of the burlap.

"Mine," he hisses within the cavern of her mouth, "You are mine." He crushes her down to the cold metal, relishing the feel of her sweat-slicked skin against his as their bodies work together in perfect synchronicity, a senseless yet perfectly composed dance that pushes both past all levels of endurance and brings them to the brink of release. Yet even so, he will not grant either of them such pleasure…not yet.

"Sing for me, Iris." he commands as the clawed tips of both fingers grate down into her flesh, striking each and every nerve with a spurt of white-hot pleasure that ignites her blood even as it spills forth from ten identical wounds scattered across her torso and stomach. The heated proof of his desire works harder and faster within her body, shattering all resistance that might be formulated and leaving nothing but a lustful creature desperate for release.

"Sing for me!" he demands once more, fire smoldering within his heart and coursing through the unbroken connection between their eyes—one pair black as a starless night, the other as blue as the ocean's waves.

A scream shatters all tranquility both within and beyond the factory, resonating throughout the abandoned grounds for a lingering moment before it is caught up in the night winds and lifted away to the heavens, where only faceless deities can shake their heads and shame her surrender to the darkness of her lover's heart.


End file.
